Guilt, oh God
by woodbox
Summary: Didn’t get the right kind of job, but that’s okay, actually. Axel/Sora


**Title: Guilt, oh God**

**Rating: M**

**Words: 1458**

**Pairing(s): Axel/Sora**

**Notes: Didn't get the right kind of job, but that's okay, actually.**

**For Dicci.**

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"Ah, shit."

Across from me, Sora grabs his napkin and starts rubbing at the forming stain on his jacket. I can see the blue of his shirt, and just a tiny slice of his stomach, but then he sees me looking and tugs his jacket down.

"Enjoy the show?" he asks darkly, and I chuckle.

"How're you going to explain _that _to mom?"

He shrugs, which means, "I'm Sora, it'll be fine," and relaxes into the booth.

Every time we come here, he gets this chocolate ice cream that looks like a diabetic coma on a cone–the thing costs a fucking assload, and he just looks at me with his big blue eyes and smiles, sometimes he goes _too _far and licks some of the shit, and goddam. But without fail, he always gets some on him. His clothes. I swear, you'd think he was seven, not seventeen.

Now he's dipping his napkin in my glass of water, leaves these little floating wads of paper in it, and squeezes it out, goes back to wiping the chocolate out of his jacket.

I met him here. He was trying to get his friends to try the Chocosplosion, which they were really just not up to. One of 'em–Rick or something, he looked like he was about to pass out from the sugar anyway, but then Sora was hanging off his arm and the other kid was tugging at his belt loops and swatting Sora away with a limp wrist.

Me? I was applying for a job. You gotta work somewhere. Don't laugh. Anyway, Rick was looking faint and the not-Sora was looking like he wanted to kill something, and I think they got in some sort of fight and left Sora there at the counter, holding this dripping cone of hyperglycemic shock.

He was looking for his wallet, trying to reach around his whole body with his left arm, to get into his back right pocket–common sense, right? So I was behind him in line and I really couldn't resist, so I reached in and grabbed it, handed it to him, and gave him my biggest smile. Half expected him to hit me in the face, but he just started staring. All the while the clerk is just looking at me with this horrified expression, but Sora looked me up and down, bit his lip and then _smirked_ at me, the fucker, said thanks, paid for his ice cream and sat down at one of the high tables.

I tried to go ask for a job application, but between the clerk's _oh, shit_ face and Sora, leaning over the table on his elbows, licking his ice cream with his eyes closed, his back arched in with his butt sticking out, I could hardly remember my own name, so I went over and sat with him.

And then, "Oh–mmyes, tasty," he said.

"That is _it_," I said, and grabbed his hand. Pulled him outside and he just stood there, still licking his ice cream and looking up at me. He barely comes up to my collarbone, and that's _with_ his weird-ass hair.

"You," he said, "could be a little less subtle."

And then he reached up, tucked his fingers into the hair behind my ear, and pulled me in for a kiss.

And _that_ is how I met Sora.

__________________________________________________________________

When we hit the sidewalk, it's only four thirty, so we've got plenty of time before he needs to get home. It's been months since that first day, and we still haven't really settled into any sort of routine. Mainly because we both hate routine, but Sora can never make up his mind.

"Let's go out for dinner," he suggests, and I just stare at him. Because, really.

"You just had a fucking _massive_ ice-cream cone," I say, crossing my hands into an X.

"Not right now. Later."

He's looking in the window of some store while he's talking, rubbing absently at his jacket.

"Not today," I say, reaching out for his hand, dislodging it from the fading wet spot, and he wraps his fingers around mine. "I got to work today."

He snorts.

"What? Work is totally more fun than spending money on you. You just eat and eat and eat–that's why I'm so skinny, see? I don't have any food for myself," and there I go, babbling, only I have to kick myself when I see his face in the reflection of a window. Looks like he's taking me seriously, brow all pulled together, biting his lip again, probably chewing on the inside of his cheek.

He's quiet until we're in the car, and he doesn't even try to get in the drivers side–he's pulled that one before, "_Oh, Axel, let _me_ drive! I'm a responsible young adult!_" Yeah, responsible my ass.

Guilt then, massive fucking guilt while we're driving. Sora is seven years younger than me. He's small, he's adorable, and I'm a huge fucking pedophile. Because he's pouting and looks like he might cry. You gotta wonder what the kid's thinking, but sometimes I don't know if I want want to hear it. He still cares too much about everything.

Then he sighs, this small soft noise, and settles down farther into his seat, pulls his knees up and rests his feet on the dashboard of my disintegrating Honda, and I feel like I've never seen anything that hot before.

Stupid. You're disgusting. What would they all say, all those men, if they knew?

But then, "Do you really not have enough to eat?"

And I can't believe that's what he's still thinking about, so I ask him, laughing a little, a little nervously. He doesn't like that, pulls his lips into a straight line and starts scratching at his neck.

He whispers, "Stop the car."

Sensitive. He can't go a minute without taking it all seriously. Getting all bent out of shape over nothing, but–if it isn't nothing to him, then.

I pull over, into a parking lot of one of those Super Walmarts, park by the edge, his side in the sun, and I wait for it. Wait for him to pull the handle and get out of the car, walk away.

"This is so hard," he says. "I feel stupid."

What? "Sora," I start, but he shakes his head.

"You work, Axel. You've got a full time job. You don't have the time or money to babysit me every day." He's still not looking at me, shoulders hunched around his knees and his head laid on them. It's a tired posture. "I'm just a stupid kid. A growing boy. You just didn't want to make me feel stupid when I kissed you, an–"

Oh, shit. This is getting existential fast. "Sora," I say, try again.

He talks over me now. "I mean, I didn't even think about it. Strangers flirt all the time. I just–you, I." He looks over, and his eyes are wet.

Teenagers, I think, and flying thoughts, matrix webs of symptoms and conditions lead me to two conclusions. Self worth and sexual frustration, and I can see both with Sora and I really want to laugh, but all that was silent, so I'd be laughing at him. No good, no can do.

So I lean over and kiss him, on the corner of the mouth.

"Look, you're not stupid, but you're _being_ stupid," I whisper.

And "Sora," right onto his ear, open mouthed. Ignore the feeling, ignore that this is wrong, ignore it. It's okay if he loves you. He loves you, doesn't he? Do you?

Do I?

Yeah, probably.

Sora looks suddenly reassured, like that was really all he needed to hear. He climbs over the gear shift, onto my lap, bites open-lipped against my face.

I have his jacket off first, but then, what the _fuck_.

He reaches down between us and, God, Sora, "God.'

He smiles, rubbing his hand up slowly, pressing down against my thigh, his fingers spidering across my chest, pulling down the collar of my sweater.

"God," I say again later, laughing while he wipes his hand on a napkin from the ice cream shop.

And I can't help thinking that, despite the fact that in three hours I will be carrying boxes around, today is one of those really good days. The days that make all the guilt worth it, because wow. Wow, Sora.


End file.
